Reviews are based on multiple visits. Ratings reflect the reviewer's overall reaction to food, ambience and service.

I drop in unannounced at The Cat & The Custard Cup in La Habra, and I’m almost turned away.

I’m greeted at the door by a waitress and a hostess. Both are smiling as I approach, but I immediately get the sense that they aren’t quite sure what to do with me. The look on their faces makes me suspect that I have been spotted.

The hostess asks, “Can I help you?”

“Table for two,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. The waitress looks at the hostess and then bolts.

“Um, well … ,” says the hostess, hesitating, looking toward the kitchen, hoping to catch the eye of a chef through the open window where the food comes out.

Nobody in the kitchen notices.

“Um … ,” she says again, buying herself a moment to think. This time she looks at her watch, and it suddenly hits me. I haven’t been spotted. It’s closing time in La Habra.

“Oh … OK, it’s fine, come on in,” she finally says. Her smile comes back to life. She grabs some menus and escorts us to a table in the main dining room, which is still halfway crowded.

The Cat & The Custard Cup doesn’t list its hours on its website or Facebook. Each states merely that the doors open at 5 p.m. But after several visits, I’ve come to realize they sometimes close at 8:30 sharp. Once when I call to reserve a table, I ask for 8:45, and the receptionist counters with a charmingly timid, “Could you do 8:20?”

Fortunately, even as I’ve always arrived after the staff has begun their closing-time chores, I’ve never actually been the last customer to leave, even when I was the last to arrive.

The Cat & The Custard Cup looks like one of those ye olde pubs you might stumble across in England. Mature, perfectly manicured ivy covers the two-story facade, and the warm-and-cozy entrance genuinely feels like a country house inn. Polished brass railings and Kelly green paneling add to the English gentry vibe in the bar and main dining room. A large chandelier made of antlers dangles high overhead, casting a soft glow on faded brick walls.

There’s nothing particularly British about the food. Rather, the cuisine is what you might call Continental, a term we don’t use much these days. But this is a menu that feels like a throwback to another decade, a time when Continental was still a thing. I don’t say that disparagingly. There’s something very comforting about nostalgia when it’s done well — and this is probably the very best restaurant in this corner of the county.

Consider the lobster bisque. Or the French onion soup. Nostalgic throwbacks, both. But these are wonderful soups, exactly what they’re supposed to be: timeless, elegant, vaguely worldly and imminently familiar.

And when a restaurant serves something as familiar as lobster bisque or French onion soup, something that everyone knows and long ago developed a strong opinion about, customers are naturally going to be picky. I doubt the kitchen receives many complaints about these.

Crab cakes are another of those sentimental favorites that causes everyone to takes sides. Basically, people who like crab cakes like them breaded and fried or else practically naked. The crab cake here is sheathed in an armor of crisp panko breadcrumbs and served in a pool of aioli. And as this style of crab cake goes, I suppose it’s pretty good. I simply belong to the other camp. I want my crab to taste of the crab, whereas the first and last tastes that register on my tongue with these are fried crumbs and spicy mayo.

One gets the sense that the menu has slowly evolved since this place debuted in 1979, or thereabouts, and still includes a few dishes from opening day, as well as a few favorites from each decade since. The portobello mushroom ravioli is a time-machine trip to the height of the American Southwestern trend of the late ’80s or early ’90s: vivid green ravioli stuffed with portobello duxelles, served in a pool of bright-orange sweet-pepper coulis along with a spoonful of fresh corn salsa and a few squirt-bottle squiggles of poblano chili cream.

And who doesn’t remember bacon-wrapped shrimp, or in this case, prosciutto? It’s a concept that has withstood the test of time. The shrimp are huge. The prosciutto is crisp. But the problem with all prosciutto- or bacon-wrapped shrimp is this: No matter how thin your bacon, it is almost impossible to get the pork crisp without overcooking the shrimp. And sadly, that’s what happens here. The flavors are good, but shrimp shouldn’t require so much chewing.

Among my favorite starters is a wonderfully simple salad of smoked salmon. It’s nothing more than a few thin slices of oak-and-applewood smoked fish topped with a small handful of arugula, some capers and the tiniest amount of red onion.

And then there are a few items that feel much more current, like the balsamic-and-honey-glazed quail with sweet-potato puree and dried cherry sauce. It is modern and beautiful and delicious, and it tells me that the kitchen hasn’t forgotten what year it is. The same goes for the perfectly caramelized scallops served atop even more perfectly caramelized mushrooms in a puddle of light, creamy corn puree. Clearly, the kitchen has skill.

Which is why I’m puzzled at why the kitchen relies so heavily on sauce. Too many dishes are completely buried in sauce, including the steaks, which are decent steaks that don’t need to be masked like that.

A filet of red deer is cooked to the perfect temperature and served with cloud-like gnocchi – which are already cloaked in sauce – plus enough blackberry port wine reduction to dress three or four more entrees. I feel like I need a spoon, not a fork.

One of the biggest pork chops I’ve ever seen is likewise brilliantly cooked, but it comes to the table looking like Carrie at the prom, drenched head to toe with not just one but two contrasting sauces layered on top of each other. It’s as if the kitchen doesn’t think we’ll like the taste of good pork.

Fortunately, there is the duck confit. And the lamb. The hindquarter of duck is truly delicious, expertly cooked and crisped, served atop juicy, tender white beans and a link of veal sausage. It’s a riff on cassoulet, and a very good one. I don’t recall having a better duck confit than this in Orange County. And the lamb loin is beautiful, sliced and served over a mound of couscous with a Mediterranean-inspired salsa verde.

Desserts bring us back to the time machine: bread pudding, crème brûlée, chocolate terrine. All are trips worth taking. Back in time. To La Habra.

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